


Sometimes This Has A Hot Sweet Taste

by little_luna



Series: Your Pain Is Mine Now [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Biting, Bottom Stiles Stilinski, Comeplay, Full Shift Werewolves, Hand Jobs, M/M, Marking, Mates, Mildly Dubious Consent, Not Canon Compliant, Oral Sex, Post Season 3, Road Trips, Scenting, Soul Bond, Top Derek Hale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-02
Updated: 2015-08-02
Packaged: 2018-04-12 15:13:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4484207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/little_luna/pseuds/little_luna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“There,” Stiles finally says after he gets his mind straight. “You’re mine.”</p><p>Derek crumbles at the declaration and Stiles holds him through it all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sometimes This Has A Hot Sweet Taste

**Author's Note:**

> *Warnings*
> 
> This isn't exactly canon compliant in its timeline, I left it open ended for a reason. But this verse takes place after Stiles has turned 18, after graduating high school.
> 
> There could be something like mildly dubious consent wherein Stiles acts upon his physical curiosity before Derek verbally allows him, although he is giving full consent within his mind.
> 
> Title taken from a lyric in Buzzcut Season by Lorde.

It was sometime between the chaos and stench of blood and smoke still clinging around the edges that they decided they needed to leave.

 

It was selfish, inappropriate given everything the pack had encountered and overcome in just three years alone. But the simple idea of just _being_ somewhere, anywhere than Beacon Hills was the most delicious, shattering idea. Derek had thought of it countless times since he had come back, had acted upon it briefly throughout the years, but he had never really told anyone.

 

There was a moment, in the Camaro, Stiles’ erratic heartbeat drilling a message in Derek’s ears despite the fact that they were safe for the time being. The pack was making their ways home somehow, running through the woods, hitching rides with Lydia or Kira. One of Stiles’ tires had blown out over the gravel and he couldn’t put enough effort to care at the moment for the well being of the Blueberry. Derek had offered him a ride home, but they found themselves in the dark instead of on the road.

 

“I think I need to leave for a little while.”

 

Stiles looked at him when his voice croaked out in the still silence. Derek heard his heartbeat pick up a little more.

 

“Me too.”

 

And just like that it was decided.

 

\--

 

Stiles knocked softly the next morning. Derek didn’t ask how he had gotten to the loft without a car, especially before the buses even began their routes. He moved to the side, still in the door’s entryway and Stiles walked inside almost cautiously. Derek noted the duffle bag hanging by a thick strap balanced on his shoulder.

 

“We’re still doing this right? I almost thought I’d get here and you’d already be gone.” Stiles smirked, but his eyes didn’t quite meet Derek’s.

 

“I don’t do that anymore.”

 

Stiles shuffled a bit in his position, hands settling in the pockets of his gray, open hoodie. He shrugged, eyes blinking a few times, taking in the bareness of the loft. Nothing had changed since the last time he was there, nothing to take in his interest, yet he was trying to find anything to hold his attention.

 

“Old habits die hard,” he said with a shrug, cognac eyes finally finding Derek’s waiting expression.

 

Derek didn’t know quite what to say to that, finding truth in the statement, even if Stiles had just said it to fill the silence. Although, Derek was realizing Stiles did that less and less when he spoke now, compared to the lanky, self-conscious teenager from years ago, he spoke now with purpose. He’s not sure when he noted the change initially, but for whatever reason, he was seeing it clear as day now.

 

“Do you still want to go?” Derek asked him gruffly, a hint of something in his voice that Stiles should be familiar with, something he wouldn’t tread deep into past the typical.

 

Stiles rolled his eyes, sighing into a sarcastic comment. Familiar.

 

“ _Dude_ , of course. I wouldn’t have shown up here at the ass crack of dawn if I wasn’t already mentally invested in this.”

 

Derek supposed he was right. Actions and words spoke louder than the short puffs of anxiety Derek could smell coming from Stiles. He chose not to comment on it, they didn’t point out each other’s weaknesses for cruelty anymore, only if it compromised the protection of the pack, of each other.

 

Derek told him to wait while he got ready and Stiles resigned to the fact that they would be in Beacon Hills for upwards of an hour more.

 

\--

 

They could have gone any which direction. North and South didn’t particularly matter, and when Derek got onto Interstate 5, heading toward the Oregon border, Stiles didn’t stir in his seat.

 

\--

 

It’s quiet for most of the ride, which is a surprise to Derek. Stiles picks a station that plays classic rock and settles in, head against the window and sleeps after an hour on the road.

 

Derek glances over a few times, sparingly. Stiles’ neck is crooked to the right, a clean sweep of warm, pale skin. His dark eyelashes dust against the darker circles under his eyes, fading a little bit each week, but not all the way gone just yet. His heartbeat is steady and slow, something Derek hasn’t heard in quite sometime.

 

He doesn’t smell like hidden notes of anxiety anymore. He smells like pack, like _Stiles_ , like trust.

 

A horn honks behind them, the Camaro jerks back into the limits of the lane Derek forgot about, and Stiles jolts awake, heart stuttering at the sudden movement, leather seat creaking as he sits up.

 

“Falling asleep on me? You’re a danger to civilians, even out of Beacon Hills,” Stiles tells him with the presence of a smirk in his words.

 

Derek doesn’t let Stiles’ teasing affect him anymore, and he pretends to drive diligently under the scrutiny. Pretends he wasn’t watching Stiles sleep, like he wasn’t about to reach a tentative hand over the brush against the outline of his smooth jaw.

 

“Shut up, Stiles,” he says instead.

 

\--

 

After a few hours Derek steers the Camaro off the major freeways, choosing back roads he only remembers from trips he would take with his family when he was much younger. When they were all still alive. Stiles doesn’t ask how Derek seamlessly directs them through the winding roads between the trees, but Derek knows he’s smarter than he lets on, he wouldn’t be surprised if Stiles has figured it out already.

 

They eat at a pancake house in the afternoon. A small, quaint restaurant nestled alongside the road, catering to tourists and truckers. It’s loud and packed, that much alone would deter Derek under any other circumstances, but Stiles loves it, so he endures the annoyance.

 

Stiles orders hash brows, eggs, and a stack of chocolate chip pancakes, Derek tells the waitress he’ll have the same. Stiles smiles at him for a reason Derek doesn’t know and he takes a sip of his coffee.

 

The teenager polishes off his food within ten minutes of it being delivered to the table, Derek takes a little longer just to watch Stiles fidget a bit.

 

Derek leaves a generous tip and they keep heading North.

 

\--

 

When the sun is due to set in a few hours Stiles asks where they’ll sleep. Derek finds them a lodge meant for campers, but it looks safe enough for the night. They’re somewhere called Union Creek, and it’s beautiful.

 

As soon as they open the door to the room Stiles runs to the double bed on the far end of the room, jumps face down into the covers, groaning in relief. Derek rolls his eyes and closes the door behind him. He sets his own duffle bag on the bed, shrugging off his leather jacket and tossing it against the cream colored blanket. He hadn’t thought too far ahead of simply _leaving_ Beacon Hills, and now he’s at a complete loss as to what to do next.

 

Stiles must notice Derek's rigid expression, and between the space of his cushioning arms, he peeks at him with his soft, tired eyes.

 

“You having an existential crisis over there, buddy?”

 

Derek gives him a look that doesn’t have the affect it use to, proven by the way he can see Stiles’ cheek rise in a hidden smile. Stiles rolls over onto his back, stretching his limbs innocently, but the way the hem of Stiles’ dark flannel rises over his belt, revealing a thin blanket of skin makes Derek want to taste things he shouldn’t.

 

“What’s up, Derek? Really?” His head is now propped on a pillow, just watching Derek unpack some toiletries and a pair of worn sweats for bed.

 

“I don’t—,” he begins, looking down at the way his hand cradles a spare shirt in its grip, “I just . . . I don’t know what to do now.”

 

When he looks up at Stiles, the teen’s brows are knitted together. He doesn’t understand.

 

“Anything you want,” Stiles tells him easily, answering a question he knew was there. “Wasn’t that the point of this?”

 

“Was that why you came?”

 

Stiles bites at his lower lip before releasing it to speak, a thin sheen becoming slicker when his tongue prods out to swipe against it. Derek waits for a response.

 

“Maybe,” Stiles finally says after a few seconds of silence.

 

Derek doesn’t know what that really means, but it’s an answer.

 

\--

 

Later, when they’ve eaten at the restaurant at the lodge, after they’ve showered and nestled in their separate beds, Derek wonders why he came back, tracing the patterns of memories he had buried deep for years. Wonderful memories full of vitality and love, memories than smelled like the forest, like dirt between his feet, that chilled his bones and enveloped him in comfort all the same. He thinks of his mother’s smile, his father’s steady hand on his back, Laura’s long hair, Cora’s disinterested expression, Uncle Peter’s snarky comments. He thinks about it so deeply he doesn’t notice when his bed dips.

 

“You’re thinking too loud,” Stiles tells him and he settles against Derek’s back, his forehead resting between the space of his shoulder blades, directly against his tattoo.

 

“Sorry.”

 

“Don’t be,” Stiles slurs, voice thickening with sleep.

 

Derek is still awake to hear the exact moment Stiles’ heartbeat slows to a steady rhythm.

 

Is still awake when one of Stiles’ arms comes to drape itself around Derek’s waist, pulling him just the barest inch closer.

 

After that, Derek falls asleep within minutes.

 

\--

 

Nothing but his own internal alarm wakes him before the sun has even risen past the crests of the mountains. He tries not to stir much, Stiles arm still warm against him, his leg having found its way between Derek’s own sometime between the night.

 

He strips his sweats in the darkness easily, pulling on the same pair of jeans of the day before, leaves on the shirt he slept in, laces up his boots and closes the door with a muffled click.

 

He doesn’t see anyone walking around the camp ground, not on the trails, and especially not deeper into the forest. He leaves his clothes in a neat pile against a tree and lets the shift crack his bones, lets his fangs grow with a snap of his head and soon he finds himself running on four legs instead of two. He runs between the trees, off the trails for hikers, careful not to howl out to a pack that won’t respond.

 

\--

 

When he’s trotting back to his clothes, limbs tired and buzzing from the exercise, he finds Stiles with his back propped against the trunk of a pine tree. He turns his head to watch Derek’s wolf approach him, expression giving nothing away, heartbeat steady.

 

He smiles at Derek again, cheeks rouged with his natural blush. He extends a hand out, something he’s never done, but Derek moves to be under it. The first brush of Stiles’ fingers feels painfully sweet, so good he can’t help but huff.

 

Stiles laughs, but continues, the tips of his fingers rolling small circles into Derek’s coarse, dark fur. He plays with his ears, getting behind them and between, eventually getting both hands to pet and stroke at the fur surrounding Derek’s neck.

 

“Maybe this was what you needed,” Stiles concludes after Derek lets his body rest against the ground, head resting beneath his crossed paws.

 

Derek wants to ask what Stiles needs, but he doesn’t want to shift back just yet, not when Stiles touches him with fingers far more gentle than he ever imagined.

 

\--

 

They decide to drive to Crater Lake, _it’s only exactly twenty three miles from here_ , Stiles says after they get back to the lodge grounds. They pack up their bags and Derek signs them out.

 

It doesn’t occur to him to ask how Stiles got permission for this trip until they pass a worn, wooden road sign that announces they are only fifteen miles to Crater Lake from their current location.

 

“I sent my dad a text before I got to the loft.”

 

Derek feels his stomach drop low in something that resembles fear.

 

“So, he doesn’t know where you are,” he states before he turns the Camaro to drive off the main road with a rough twist of the wheel.

 

“Derek, what the _hell_ —“

 

He throws the Camaro in park, looks over at Stiles who wears a surprised expression, but the scent rolling off of him is steeping with guilt.

 

“I didn’t bring you with me so your father could think you _ran away_ —“ Derek spits, but Stiles is quick to react.

 

“I’m not running!”

 

“Does Scott even know where you are? Who you’re with?” Derek asks over him.

 

“He doesn’t need to know where I am all the time,” Stiles counters, visibly shrinking in his seat like a scolded child.

 

Derek sighs, letting his back fall against the leather with a thump, the easy comfort between the two being wrung into something tight and stiff with confrontation. He knows he’s not good with words, doesn’t know what to say to make Stiles look at him instead of out the window, so he turns the Camaro back on with a purr, and gets back onto the main road.

 

After a few minutes he thinks of something to say. It’s not profound, probably not important, but he needs to say it either way.

 

“It’s not fair to leave them just like that, not after everything. They worry because they care. They just want to know you’re safe.”

 

Stiles says nothing to that. Doesn’t shift or even look over to Derek with familiar disdain.

 

 _I’m safe with you_ , he hears him mumble not after long, not nearly low enough to escape Derek’s ears.

 

He wonders if that’s ever been true.

 

\--

 

Crater Lake is as beautiful as Union Creek. Derek isn’t surprised and Stiles tries to mask his interest in favor of pouting. Derek checks them into a lodge once again, Stiles trails behind him with more distance than he has in years.

 

This time, Stiles doesn’t jump onto the bed in relief. He leaves his bag on the mattress and heads in a direct line to the bathroom. Derek thinks of knocking, checking to see if he’s okay although he clearly knows he’s not. He bites his lip, his own footsteps shuffling just outside the door, knows Stiles can hear him.

 

He decides space may be better for the both of them and leaves his bag on his own bed, bringing nothing but his keys, wallet, and phone just in case.

 

He chooses to explore around the campground, ignores the glances he gets from the temporary inhabitants. There’s a gift shop that sells souvenirs, snacks and a few different types of drinks. He buys a few bottles of water, a few choices of snacks for Stiles, and an evergreen colored shirt that may serve as an apology later.

 

He sits at one of the tables a few hundred feet away from the lodge, watching the sway of the trees surrounding his location, listens past the babble of the campers and travelers alike, hears the birds chirping overhead, the crinkle of water from a freshwater river nearby. He tries to locate Stiles heartbeat, but he thinks he may be too far away for that.

 

After an hour his phone buzzes in the pocket of his jacket. It could be anyone from the pack and his pulse quickens at the thought of something happening while he was selfishly away.

 

**Where’d you go?**

It’s from Stiles, thankfully. And that’s all the invitation Derek needs to push himself off the bench and make his way back to their room.

 

What he finds when he opens the door is Stiles settled against the blankets, cream again, body trained in the direction of the door, as if waiting for Derek to tumble through. His eyes are open and soft, he smells calm, although guilt is still lingering there at the surface of his skin.

 

Derek can feel those maple eyes watch him as he places the plastic bag from the gift shop on the bedside table they share, pushing the lamp to the side to make adequate room. Derek sits at the edge of his bed, hands gripping each other loosely between the space of his thighs. He sees Stiles’ eyes look down at his fingers, then up to his face.

 

“Dad knows I’m with you. I’d never just leave him without a word. Things are different now that he knows. It’s not easier, but it’s better.”

 

Derek nods at that, not meeting Stiles' eyes after he finishes.

 

“Hey,” Stiles nearly whispers, one hand coming out to touch the open space between them. Derek reaches out to him, like instinct, like he’s always wanted to. “I’m not mad at you, I guess no one wants to hear when someone else is right. Especially not _you_.”

 

He’s speaking with purpose, but he’s teasing again, and it settles Derek more than he knows. He watches their fingers dance together, not really embracing, not really playing. Just touching, feeling the weight and texture of one another’s skin. Stiles is smooth where Derek is rough, that much hasn’t changed over the years.

 

“You hungry?” Derek finally asks after a few minutes, watching Stiles’ arm shake a little at the strain of reaching out for so long, but he keeps his fingers close to Derek’s all the same.

 

“Yeah, you sniff out anything good in your travels?”

 

“There’s a restaurant at the lodge, or we could see what’s around.”

 

Stiles rises, bringing his hand back to balance himself as he sits up. Derek pretends he doesn’t miss the comfort of his touch.

 

Stiles shrugs, a content smile on his face. “Whatever you want.”

 

\--

 

Turns out what Derek wants is Stiles to stop complaining about fries, _you don’t understand I am having withdrawals_ , and they find themselves at the drive-thru quite a few miles out.

 

The car smells like spices and milkshakes and ketchup, but Derek can’t complain at all given how Stiles’ face had lighten up at the glowing Arby’s sign. They ordered four large orders of fries and a burger each, Stiles hadn’t talked Derek into the milkshakes as much as he had shouted the order out of Derek’s rolled down window. Derek figured Stiles couldn’t wait once he passed the warm bag into his grabby hands, so he parked in a corner of the lot, the only other cars there belonging to the employees.

 

Stiles went through all the napkins and ketchup packs, Derek only just a bit curious at how voracious his appetite was for a human.

 

They were quiet again while they ate, the same station playing classic rock softly through the speakers. And at some point Derek could not longer hear the crinkle of the take out bag, nor Stiles slurping his chocolate shake and when he glanced over he saw Stiles smiling again, like he has been doing frequently since they left the Beacon county line.

 

“What?” Derek asks with a bit of bite, brows furrowed in honest confusion.

 

Stiles says nothing, just shakes his head like an afterthought and looks down at his empty lap. Derek tries to think nothing of it and takes another bite of his burger.

 

A few commercials play for local businesses neither of them know and another song comes on the radio waves, one Derek faintly remembers his dad playing in the car from a memory he can’t confirm, one that may not even be real.

 

“Hey,” Stiles says cautiously, rousing him out of his mind.

 

Derek looks over at him, the glow of the street lamps surrounding the Camaro washing out Stiles’ skin to a yellow tone, eyes and hair appearing darker. Derek can’t even make out the ever-present blush on Stiles’ cheeks.

 

Stiles is continuing to look at him softly, as if waiting, watching Derek carefully for a few moments before leaning towards him, stopping an appropriate distance away. It feels like Stiles is almost _trying_ to look through him, and when he can’t find anything, when Derek doesn’t retreat nor react, he leans even closer.

 

The first coherent thought Derek has is that Stiles will taste the burger on him, but when those supple lips lightly rest against his, he can’t think of anything at all.

 

Stiles gives a press and a pucker, leans back a little, eyes closed, and kisses Derek again. He hears the smallest sound come from Stiles’ throat and realizes he can feel the grain of Stiles’ hair against his palm because he had wanted to pull him closer. Stiles parts only a moment later, eyes opening to brilliance, smile wide and incredible. “Yeah?”

 

Derek nods, eyes watching Stiles bite his lip again, knowing somehow that he can do that now if he wants to.

 

\--

 

He does.

 

\--

 

They don’t make it out of bed the next morning, Stiles too content to realize how warm he can be with just Derek’s touch alone. He has his head on Derek’s bare chest, hearing his steady heartbeat underneath his ear, Derek’s hand making faint trails down the notches of his spine, burrowing into his hair from time to time, fingertips faintly dusting against the curve of his neck.

 

Stiles wants to ask him how long Derek’s wanted to kiss him the way he did the night before. How many touches and glances weren’t his imagination alone, how many times they wound up alone together were not sheer coincidences. The questions bubble against his lips, but he doesn’t dare ask them, not yet at least.

 

“You’re thinking too loud,” Derek whispers against his hair, making Stiles smile wider than he has in a long time.

 

“Been spending too much time around you.”

 

Derek shifts a bit, the ghost touches turning into an embrace that makes Stiles' skin tingle.

 

“Old habits die hard.”

 

\--

 

They head to Salem after Derek has run himself into exhaustion between the trees and trails, and against his better judgment he agrees to let Stiles drive the Camaro. He jokes with Stiles about letting him wear his jacket as well, but Stiles doesn’t take the bait, practically ripping the material off of Derek’s shoulders without so much as an after thought.

 

Derek tries to clear his head during the long ride to Salem, tries not to think too hard about Stiles wearing his clothes, Stiles rubbing his scent all over his favorite jacket, against the driver’s seat, fingers gripping the steering wheel with lax precision.

 

Derek has to roll down the window after sometime, Stiles’ happiness and his own want is starting to suffocate him in the tight quarters. He knows he’s waited for Stiles for a long time, before he ever knew he had an ounce of hope, before he even realized he strove to protect him just as much as anyone else. Before he could stupidly realize that after everything, he needed to know Stiles was safe.

 

He could wait a little longer, could let Stiles believe he didn’t affect him so deeply until he knew he could show him, with invitation and pronounced consent.

 

It wouldn’t be the hardest thing he’s ever done, he could wait as long as Stiles needed.

 

\--

 

Thankfully, however, he doesn’t have to wait much longer.

 

After they make it to Salem they only stay for a day before heading to Portland. They see neighborhoods, business, and little shops with more prevalence until it becomes an average surrounding. Hotels are no longer lodges attached to camp grounds, they no longer have to settle for a small restaurant because of convenience. As Stiles drives, he already misses the seclusion of the campgrounds, he knows he won’t see Derek’s wolf in the city. The grimace Derek holds on his face doesn’t escape Stiles, he knows the alpha isn’t particular to bustling cities, traffic, and anyone who isn’t immediate pack. They’ve fought creatures of storybooks, folk tales, and from some recess of hell, yet still, the one fact Stiles knows always rings true is Derek’s teetering comfort level around crowds.

 

They find a modestly priced hotel after something between lunch and dinner at a café, and Stiles resigns to not leaving the room until they settle on their next location. But neither of them are in a hurry for such future planning.

 

It begins with Stiles thighs drawn tight on either side of Derek’s hips, the teen looking down at the were, deft fingers brushing against the stubble of Derek’s short beard, debating. Hands go further, palms finding the sides of Derek’s neck, one circling to brush his thumb against the bump of Derek’s Adam’s apple, back and forth until the attention makes Derek near dizzy. He still feels the presence when Stiles takes his hand away, replacing it with a thick swipe of his tongue.

 

Derek’s hands surge to grip onto Stiles, one hand bunching in his threadbare shirt, the other pulling on a hip to bring him closer, to grind him down against Derek. He can nearly feel the smile Stiles is branding him with, another thick stripe traces Derek’s throat before Stiles even asks if this is okay.

 

Derek can’t humor him with a response, the weight of the teen above him is overwhelming, the hot, wet heat of his mouth is practically sinful in its curiosity, Derek can practically taste Stiles’ arousal, the smell of it wafting between their bodies, thick and delirious.

 

“I wish I could mark you,” he whispers into Derek’s ear, voice rough and near breathless. Derek whines at that, Stiles knows _exactly_ what he’s doing.

 

“You just heal too damn fast,” he continues, “bet you thought about it though. What you could do to me, how much you could get away with, where you could put your mouth so no one would see. I’d let you, _god Derek_ , _I would have let you do anything_.”

 

Stiles’ heartbeat is erratic with lust, Derek can feel his skin blazing wherever he touches, Stiles’ quick mouth latching back onto the slick trail he left behind. He grinds his weight down, hips rolling without purpose, rutting just for friction. Derek’s already hard, cock pumped full, weighing heavy and painful in his jeans and he focuses enough to grip Stiles’ hips, guiding him to a fluid motion.

 

Derek swallows Stiles’ sob when their cocks bump against each other, even between the thick layers of denim it’s good, _so good_ because it’s _Stiles_ , his arms circled around Derek’s neck like a vice, his lips licking and biting Derek’s like he can’t get enough of his taste. Stiles chases Derek every time he moves, when Derek just wants to _look_ at Stiles for a minute, the teen won’t have it, arms getting tighter around Derek, chest crushing against his own, hips moving even faster.

 

“I can still do it, can’t I?” he pants against Derek’s open lips, and Derek just nods, too far gone to deny Stiles anything, he would give him the world if Stiles asked.

 

Hands get between the tight press of their bodies and Derek has to pull away to allow it. Stiles fumbles with his own belt until it gives, unbuttoning his jeans, zipper being pushed down in a swift motion. He puts his own hands over Derek’s, guiding them to pull down the waistband of his jeans, briefs trailing behind until Stiles has enough room to pull his flushed cock from the confines.

 

The smell hits Derek like a freight train, heady and dense, clinging to the air like a savory fragrance. Derek groans, near drunk on it already, mouth moving on instinct to taste the salty skin of Stiles awaiting neck. Stiles groans above him like he’s in agony, the way Derek is tasting him is more wolf than anything, his tongue painting stripes against the column of his throat like a kitten to milk. He has nothing to compare it to, nothing to the way Derek wants to drown him in attention, the way his beard is brushing against Stiles’ jaw is already burning and he wants it to leave him raw.

 

“ _Derek_ ,” he says, voice straining and weak, he can barely recognize it.

 

Derek whimpers against him before he pulls away, Stiles sees Derek’s eyes first, pupils blown, a thin ring of red surrounding them.

 

“Fuck, your eyes,” Stiles whispers, hand moving faster in its grip. He gives a particularly rough tug at the head, body caving into itself at how incredible it feels, imagines it to be Derek’s hand, his mouth, his heat surrounding him. He’s too desperate for that now, so close to coming he doesn’t have enough patience to even bring Derek’s calloused hand to his own mouth, to suck on his fingers just to get him to stuff them into his hole. Stiles closes his eyes at the thought, too tangible now that it makes him moan broken and ugly.

 

He drags his free hand against the hem of Derek’s Henley, pulling it up by the tips of his fingers, feeling the way Derek’s stomach flutters under his touch. Stiles could watch it all day, the way the muscles contract on their own accord, how they expand when Derek’s hips shift up to meet Stiles. Stiles wants to taste every part of him, wants to trace his tongue over every bump and crevice he always thought was out of reach. But they have time, that’s the most beautiful fact about it all.

 

“ _Shit_ , _Derek_ ,” Stiles’ hand bunches in the Henley, just shy of going past Derek’s nipples, everything being too much. Stiles can feel the thick line of Derek’s cock against his thigh, tight jeans holding it in place as Derek lines it up against the inseam of Stiles’ jeans, hips twitching, wishing for more. All Stiles can hear is the sound of their labored breathing, the shift of fabrics, of his own hand wringing his cock fast and dirty, Derek whining underneath him like an animal wounded.

 

Stiles feels like he’s shattering one moment to the next, noises escape his mouth that he’s never made before, hand suddenly coated thick in his own come, sight temporarily shot, heartbeat ringing everywhere. He blindly brings his hand away from his softening cock to the gorgeous muscles of Derek’s stomach, rubbing his spunk everywhere he can, even bringing it up to the space just below Derek’s ear, marking Derek the only way he knows how.

 

“There,” Stiles finally says after he gets his mind straight. “You’re mine.”

 

Derek crumbles at the declaration and Stiles holds him through it all.

 

\--

 

It’s after they make it past the Washington border that Derek can’t contain himself anymore. They park at the side of the road, Stiles doesn’t have enough time to even open the door before Derek is charging past the open trees.

 

They spend the next few hours playing games Stiles doesn’t understand, but they all involve him searching for Derek in the forest. Every time he thinks he’s close to catching him, the wolf always proves to be faster, ducking out of reach a few seconds ahead. The farther they tread into the forest the more Stiles forgets about trying to remember a trail back.

 

He knows Derek will keep him safe.

 

 

\--

 

They find another hotel in Olympia and Derek tells him they don’t have to stay in the room all day.

 

“It’s not like I’ve never been surrounded by civilization, Stiles. I lived in New York for a while.”

 

“We can always do touristy things on our way back, when will we have this opportunity again?”

 

Derek rolls his eyes, but he smiles nonetheless. The sight still making Stiles warm all over, Derek doesn’t smile nearly enough.

 

“You can come over to the loft,” Derek tries to convince him, drawing his body close on the bed.

 

“As if I didn’t do that already,” Stiles counters, but he lets himself be positioned by Derek, his chest to Stiles’ back, a hand resting against the skin beneath Stiles’ heart.

 

“But this time I won’t kick you out,” Derek mumbles into Stiles’ hair.

 

“Honestly, _woo_ me harder, I’m practically about to throw myself at your feet.”

 

“Shut up, Stiles.”

 

\--

 

After the week, they decided to head back. They see the Space Needle in Seattle, they visit a few museums, they eat donuts in Eugene at a place Stiles saw on TV, and stop one last time just outside the Oregon border.

 

There is no lodge, only a motel that looks cleaner than others they had passed. Derek requests a room with one bed this time and Stiles jumps on it when he swings the door open. They eat somewhere neither of them will remember the next day, they shower, but don’t bother to change into anything but briefs.

 

It’s nearly midnight, but Stiles doesn’t stop tracing the lines of Derek’s face. Derek watches Stiles’ eyes as they swipe against every part of his face, as if taking every part of it to memory, studying it like a great painting. No one has looked at him like this since the fire, with so much devotion it would make anyone want to burst. Derek always believed that this wouldn’t be a reality for him, not after everything, that no one would have the patience to look at him with an expression that holds more than pity, that would grow to something else entirely.

 

Derek knows what that is now. Knows what Stiles is telling him with his presence and his hands and his warmth, can taste it as clearly as the way Stiles breathes Derek’s name into his mouth.

 

Stiles doesn’t stop with Derek’s face. He presses Derek to lie down against the squeaky mattress, hovers his body over him, limbs Derek can see with traces of tight muscles, scars that Stiles wears solely because they were forced onto him. Derek brings his hand to trace patterns against Stiles’ back, letting the teen kiss him sweetly before he bites at his neck.

 

“Are they going to know?”

 

“Know what, _Stiles_ ,” he can barely get the last bit out, Stiles having bitten into the swell of his left pectoral.

 

“Are they going to smell you on me?”

 

“ _Yes_ ,” Derek breathes, canting him hips up for Stiles to take off his briefs. Stiles settles between Derek's legs, he can’t even remember opening them for teen, and Stiles rests his nose against Derek’s groin, breathing in the scent of him. He’s going to drive Derek crazy.

 

“Good, I want them to know,” he says against the thick meat of Derek’s cock in his hand. He sucks on the side, mouth unable to close around it from the angle, red tongue darting out to taste. Stiles’ lips are wet and bruised red, stretching tight when he takes Derek into his mouth, sinking down as far as he can with limited experience. He gets him wet, making obscene sounds from the slickness, strings of spit leading back to Stiles’ perfect lips when he pulls away. He wipes away the excess with his hand, looking at Derek’s cock, uncut and dark, like he wants to devour it, like he’s aching for it. There’s a spot on Stiles’ gray briefs where precome has bled through the fabric, but he pays it no mind.

 

Stiles strips himself of his last bit of clothing, thighs tight around Derek’s hips like in times past, lining up Derek’s cock so it lies flat against the werewolf’s belly, the slickness it’s coated in letting Stiles rut against it with delicious ease. He grinds against Derek with purpose, hands going back to grip himself open even more for Derek to fit right between him.

 

“ _Stiles_ ,” he practically whines, hands still clutching at Stiles’ back, blunt nails dragging their way down.

 

“ _Yeah, Derek_ ,” he praises, hand coming back to trace Derek’s face, reverently, slowing them down from the starving need of their bodies. They still have time, they still _will_ have time back in Beacon Hills, but this feels like the end of something. Something they want to chase before it runs dry.

 

“I always thought you were the most gorgeous thing I’d ever seen,” Stiles tells him, breathing trying to be controlled, hips only moving languidly now. “No one talked to me the way you did, no one trusted me so blindly before Scott—“

 

“Don’t mention Scott here, _Stiles_ —“

 

He smiles into the crook of Derek’s neck, lays a kiss there because he can. Derek wraps his arms around his waist, brings him closer, hips ceasing.

 

“Can we still do what we want when we’re back home?”

 

“Within reason.”

 

Stiles clicks his tongue, face being drawn back from the comfort of Derek’s neck. He looks down at him, freshwater eyes full of mischief, smirk on his face. Stiles wishes he could keep that expression there, forever if he could.

 

“What about now?” he continues, fingers scraping between Derek’s dark hair.

 

“Whatever we want,” Derek tells him earnestly, leaning up to catch Stiles’ lips.

 

\--

 

It’s the first time Derek had ever made love to someone. Not the first time he had ever taken someone apart, nor the first person he wanted to mark, but the first time he wanted to claim, the first time his body wanted to keep going because every fiber was screaming _mate_.

 

Derek thinks Stiles knew from the first press of Derek inside him, he was always too smart for his own good. His eyes were open, looking up at Derek, body waiting for the intrusion. After Derek had bottomed out, his groin pressed tight against Stiles’ ass, Stiles had started breathing rougher, eyes clear before they closed to savor how full he was, arms coming out to latch onto Derek, wanting their bodies as close as possible.

 

Stiles wouldn’t let go all throughout, hands firm on Derek’s skin, wherever they would wander. He would cry out, short moans, broken groans as Derek went deeper, sobs when Derek would grind against his prostate insistently.

 

“ _Fuck, fuck—Derek it’s so good_ ,” he would whimper, words becoming garbled when his mind would be too far gone.

 

Derek would continue on, pounding his hips into Stiles’ tight heat, feeling as it would cease up and relax, fluttering around him beautifully, better than he ever could have dreamt. Stiles’ scent could have easily done him in from the beginning, but he wanted this to last, would slow down to a simple rhythm when he would be too close. It drove Stiles to near insanity.

 

“ _God, Derek, please, please, please, come on_ ,” he would nearly growl, body taut with the tension of release, cheeks bursting with such an exquisite blush, dusting past his collarbones, his lips shiny and wet from biting them to oblivion. Derek has never seen anything so tempting, so divine in it’s imperfection and chaos.

 

If Stiles would plead enough, Derek would continue, rough and fast. It felt like hours that they went like this, back and forth until Stiles’ impatience would be the end for them both.

 

He let out a cry, throaty and hitched, back bowing off the mattress, only to fall back, looking at Derek as if in pain.

 

“ _God, oh God—“_

He wedged a hand between them, bodies sweaty and spent, only tugging at his cock a few times before he let it go to bounce against his stomach, come creating ribbons against his chest, near translucent against his pale skin.

 

“ _Stiles,”_ Derek said, not knowing what else _to_ say. He was close, painful and so close to feeling himself tip over to something unknown.

 

“You’re fine,” Stiles whispered, “Anything we want, remember?”

 

“I want—“

 

“ _Yeah_ ,” Stiles jerked, oversensitive, body starting to shake from the prolonged stimulation. “ _Tell me. Tell me what you want, Derek.”_

He couldn’t even begin to tell him, he could never tell Stiles’ every thought he had of him throughout the years, every moment he hated himself for wanting more of, every time he looked at Stiles just a little too long to be casual, every time he would seek out his heartbeat amongst the pack just to know he was nearby, how his scent clung to every surface of the loft like Stiles had never left. Derek wanted Stiles like an aching in his bones, he wanted him in a way he had never wanted anyone else.

 

In the midst of it, between Derek clinging to Stiles, between Stiles’ keening when he finally felt Derek hot and slick inside him, Derek could hear Stiles repeating something, like a prayer protecting them.

 

_You have me, Derek. You have me._

 

\--

 

Derek half expects there to be an uproar when they finally get back to Beacon Hills.

 

But the sheriff doesn’t seek him out for stealing his son away from a week, Scott doesn’t demand they speak about leaving the pack behind. Isaac doesn’t even bat an eye when Derek comes through the door, reeking of Stiles and himself.

 

Isaac simply gives him a once over, carton of ice cream in one hand, spoon settled between his lips.

 

“It’s about time,” he mumbles and goes back to his room.

 

Derek no longer pretends to be oblivious.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


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